


I'll Stay With You In The Morning

by mrsmcdarbear



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff and Humor, POV Clarke Griffin, Season/Series 01, canonverse, jealous!Clarke, pining!clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-11-07 04:12:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11051088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsmcdarbear/pseuds/mrsmcdarbear
Summary: Clarke has a very colorful vocabulary when it comes to Bellamy Blake, but nurturing has never been at the top of the list.It’s not so much that she doesn’t expect this side of him to exist (little sister, duh); it’s more like she just never thought of him being this way towards her, not in real life anyway.More specifically, she never thought it would be Bellamy following her outside camp to hold her hair back as she falls to her knees and vomits.orBellamy's like a different person when Clarke is sick and she doesn't know how to deal.alsoI have a huge boner for season 1 canon fics. Fight me.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Idk guys. I was bored, so I did a thing.

Clarke has a very colorful vocabulary when it comes to Bellamy Blake, but _nurturing_ has never been at the top of the list.

It’s not so much that she doesn’t expect this side of him to exist (little sister, duh); it’s more like she just never thought of him being this way towards her, not in real life anyway.

More specifically, she never thought it would be Bellamy following her outside camp to hold her hair back as she falls to her knees and vomits.

Her throat burns when it’s over and everything is blurry when she blinks and squints at him over her shoulder, looking positively smug. It’s the kind of face he makes whenever he’s holding his gun, or walking a girl to his tent, or maybe both at the same time – she doesn’t know what weird shit he’s into.

His dark curls fall over his eyes when he leans forward and it’s so fucking distracting, she vows she’s going to cut it all off while he’s sleeping, possibly drugged. She has connections and Monty owes her a favor.

He still has his hands tangled in her locks when he raises an eyebrow and says, “You’ve looked better, Princess.”

She snorts, heaves, and vomits again. She thinks she may be dying and says so, even when the logical part of her brain knows it’ll pass in a day, and as long as she stays hydrated, she’ll be perfectly fine.

 _Fuck logic._ She feels like death’s ugly twin.

A low chuckle echoes behind her and she tenses at the weight of a palm rubbing circles along her spine, the other tightening its grip on her hair.

Clarke’s weak and slightly delirious, so naturally, a brief image of this happening under different circumstances where they’re both naked flashes through her mind.

She curses and spits into the grass.

This isn’t the first time she’s fantasized about fucking him, but it’s a little unnerving that it’s happening while she’s in the middle gagging on bile and slime.

She accepted her attraction to him their first day on the ground, but overtime it’s evolved into this – crush? _Shit. Is that seriously the only word to describe it?_  She doesn’t have much experience liking someone to the point of having vivid sexual dreams about them while awake, but it’s making her feel like a serious pervert and she’s mildly disgusted with herself – when she’s not actively getting off on it.

“You’re going to be fine,” he says and she swears she can hear him roll his eyes.

“Says the guy with a herculean immune system.”

“I’m glad you’ve finally acknowledge my superiority, Princess. Try not to forget it in the morning.”

“Don’t count on it." She cringes, pushing herself up on her feet only to stumble back into him. The hand on her back falls to her hip, pressing her against him, while the other slides down to rub the back of her neck. 

He _would_ touch her when she can’t properly enjoy it. It’s like he knows and is toying with her, which wouldn’t be a far stretch if she didn’t make it her mission in life to talk about how much she detests him at least once a day, with an audience. If it happens to be when he’s surrounded by his harem, it’s just a happy coincidence.

It only proves to be a challenge when he’s not wearing a shirt, or being a stupidly brave idiot when she least expects it – so like, _always_.  

If he keeps it up she’s going to have to start raising her expectations, because apparently he likes pretending he doesn’t care almost as much as she likes pretending she hates him.

Then there’s the small hand gun that peaks out of his pants sometimes, which turns her on for reasons she’d rather not analyze, because she’s not ready to fully accept the extent of her perversion.

The touching thing though. That’s _new._

It’s happened before, a quick reminder he’s there, so brief she hardly has time to register it, but sometimes, or right now, it feels deliberate, like he’s making an effort.

He pulls her closer and she shudders.

“Cold?” he asks, his breath brushing against her cheek.

“Chills. Sick. It’s a symptom,” she says a little too quickly. If he notices her blush, he ignores it. Probably assumes she’s flushed from the fever, which is totally probable and like sixty percent accurate.

“Think you can pull yourself together to make it back to my tent, or would you like me to carry you?”

She stumbles over a branch and grips his shirt. “What?”

“Is hearing loss a symptom too?”

“No.” She grimaces. “I just think you meant to say _my_ tent.”

“Nope.”

She gulps. _Oh fuck._ “I really think I should stay in my own tent. I mean . . . what would people say?”

His laugh shakes her whole body and she wants to cry. “No offense, Princess, but no one’s going to think I’m fucking you looking like that.”

It’s a fair point, but it still stings. She wonders what he thinks of her on a regular basis, when she doesn’t look like she crawled out of her own grave.

“None taken,” she mumbles pulling away from his side and wrapping her arms around herself. There’s no way she’s agreeing to this. Not under these circumstances. Not that there would ever be another opportunity.

Really, this may be her only chance to sleep with Bellamy Blake. In the most literal sense of the word, but her stomach still jolts with the possibility of waking up in his arms, and the sweat of his body heat seeping into her skin, maybe his morning wood pressing against her thigh.

She needs help, a fuck-buddy maybe. Finn’s off the table, so . . .

“Look, if I was going to catch this, I would have already. We don’t need Monty, or Jasper getting sick too. I’m already running low on bodies to boss around and we need the workers.”

He’s not exactly wrong – in theory.

“I don’t know,” she sighs. She does though. She’s going to yes, but he can still work for it. She doesn’t want to come off eager. If he found out she was looking forward to this he’d never respect her again. She’d be another one of _those_ girls. Actually, worse, because at least they’re fucking him. What’s her excuse?

His fingers dip to the side of her neck and she’s terrified he can feel how fast her heart is beating. “It’s one night, Clarke. Stop reading so much into it.”

*

She throws up twice and Bellamy’s there both times.

It’s a lot of contact she didn’t anticipate, and unless he’s into to some pretty gross shit, he’s probably the least attracted to her he’s ever been, if at all, but _god_ , she's never been more into him.

She regrets not fighting him harder on their sleeping arrangements, because she may be falling in love with him, which is so fucking ridiculous, she pukes again.

He combs her hair back and she feels it like a pinch in her heart, knowing the comfort is temporary, much like her illness. She swears when he tries to help her back to his flatbed, and insists she’s perfectly capable of crawling and walking is for over-achievers. She might be throwing a tantrum, but can’t seem to stop herself.  She’s determined to keep up appearances, so she calls him stupid.

“Jesus, you’re like the worst patient ever.”

She tries telling him to float himself, but it comes out as an intelligible growl into his fur blankets. He has the comfiest bed in all of the land.

“You say that as if you’ve tried them all.” She stills and glances at him, catching his shiny eyes and the shadow of a smirk. “And here I thought I was special.”

“You’re annoying.” She huffs, rolling over on her side, so her back is to him.

He laughs and nudges leg with his foot. “Hey,” he adds softly.

“What?”

She feels his weight disappear from the bed, and almost wonders if he’d rather spend the rest of the night on the ground than deal with her nonsense, but he returns, pulling up into a sitting position against his chest. “Drink.”

He holds the makeshift cup in his hands, pressing it to her lips, like she’s incapable. It pisses her off and warms her heart in equal measure.

She gulps it down either way, because she’s too exhausted to argue.

“Good?”

“For now." She sighs, tugging a loose curl behind her ear.

“Are you feeling any better?”

“Do I look any better?” she quips and he grins.

“Too dark to tell."

She grunts and goes to turn away from him again, when he tugs her to him, curling an arm around her waist.

“What are you doing?”

“Go to sleep, Clarke.” He sighs, trailing his fingers up her side. “You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

She does, but under protest.

And the sedative he gave her without asking. He has connections too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE!
> 
> Another chapter . . .  
> It's 5 am and I haven't slept yet, so you know. Read at your own risk.  
> Unbeta'd as always.

Bellamy goes back to being his usually dick-ish self a few days later. Not that—

Well, he was kind of a dick before too.

But he was also cuddly and comforting, amd so un-Bellamy-like. Clarke has to wonder if she really knows him at all.

It’s really not helping with the whole _crush_ thing. Clarke thought she liked him before she shared a bed with him and now she _like-likes_ him.

It’s a lot to deal with.

 _That_ —along with the impending war hanging over their heads.

Seriously, she does not have time for this.

She cannot afford to fall in love with the Bellamy fucking Blake.

No way in hell.

Unfortunately, the universe really doesn’t care about her emotional baggage, honestly. It’s like a game. How much can Clarke handle before she breaks under the weight of it all? Let’s find out next time on—

“Earth to Princess.”

Clarke blinks when a hand dangles in front of her face and then flicks her nose.

“Uh—sorry, what?”

Octavia looks entirely unimpressed and Clarke kind of wants to crawl in hole and die.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t be resting?” she asks, skeptical. “You still seem out of it.”

She shakes her head. “I’m fine, Octavia.”

She is totally _not_ fine. She’s as far as she can be from _fine_. She’s the fucking antonym of _fine_.

But it’s nothing bed rest will fix—in fact it will probably make it worse, because sleeping involves dreaming, and _lately_ dreaming involves Bellamy.

 _Bellamy fucking Blake_ —the guy currently wondering around camp without a shirt on and ruining her life in one fell swoop.

His signature scowl is ever so present on his face, as he surveys the camp, glaring at everyone and everything that moves. He’s not a morning person by any means. A trait Clarke finds immensely more appealing than she did the second day on the ground.  Now she kind of wants to go over there and ask him what’s wrong and maybe cook him breakfast, or something.

A leaf blows past him and he snarls at it. A fucking leaf is getting more attention than he’s given to Clarke in the past twenty-four hours.

 _Oh my god._  

“Fuck.”

“What—what is it?” Octavia asks, and it’s only then that Clarke realizes she spoke out loud.

“Huh? Nothing,” she stutters and attempts to go back to whatever she’s supposed to be doing, only to realize she has no idea what that is. “So, uh—what was it that you needed?”

Octavia narrows her sights, fixing her with a suspicious stare. Clarke pointedly looks away and fidgets with a loose string on the sleeve of her henley.

“I _was_ asking if you thought sketching some building designs. Miller and Raven have some ideas, but I thought we’d be safer in your hands—being that you’re the artist and all.”

“Buildings?”

Her eyes are slits. “Yeah, like cabins—for camp—for people to live in. Seriously, I said all this already. What’s with you?”

“Right. Yeah,” Clarke says with a wave of her hand. “Sorry, I’m just still a little tired, I guess.” She opens her mouth to add something else, but it snaps shut when Roma approaches Bellamy and trials a finger down the expansion of his chest, doing that seductive eye flutter thing boys fawn over. Bellamy slants his lips into that cocky smirk, and tucks a lock of Roma’s hair behind her ear.

An entirely unwelcome feeling coils around Clarke’s insides, turning her blood into acid. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep herself from sneering at them. Roma giggles and Clarke nearly vomits up the berries she ate minutes earlier. She holds it down, because that would be such a waste of a perfectly good meal.

Maybe Octavia is right and she still is sick—it’s almost better than the alternative .

Scratch that.

It _is_ better than the alternative, because the alternative is that Clarke is the jealous-type— _seriously?_

If Clarke can handle Raven and Finn (the guy Clarke actually _had_ sex with) prancing around camp like they’re on their damn honeymoon, she most certainly _should_ be able to handle the mere sight of Bellamy flirting with ease.

It makes perfect sense in theory, but reality is a fickle foe.

Octavia follows her gaze and snorts. “Oh for the love of—”

Bellamy’s eyes snap to hers and Clarke flushes, ducking her head.

“What?” she asks when she sees the look of horror etched on his sister’s face.

“Please tell me you’re not half paying attention to me, because you’re too busy checking out _my brother_?”

“Wha—No, no—of course not.”

Octavia slaps a palm to her forehead. “Oh no, Clarke,” she whines. “You’re supposed to be immune to his so-called-charms! It’s why we’re such good friends—I don’t have to subject myself to the pain of knowing if there's freckles on Bellamy’s—”

“Oh my god, stop!” Clarke hisses, covering her ears with her hands. “I’m not checking out your brother, so drop it,” she says in the sternest tone she can manage—the one she uses when she tries and fails at telling Bellamy what to do.

Apparently the Blakes have that in common.

“He doesn’t deserve you, you know—even if he could get his ass out of his head long enough to pay attention.”

“This isn’t a thing, Octavia,” Clarke retorts. _And if it is a thing, it’s a very one-sided thing._

“Uh-huh. So, explain your face.”

“What?”

Octavia just sighs, rolls her eyes and leaves her there furious and blushing—waiting for the ground to open up and swallow her whole.

She catches Bellamy’s eyes as he leans down and captures Roma’s lips with his. Apparently she stares too long, because he raises a brow just as she gets up and stomps off to her tent.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty short chapter, but I actually ended up writing a longer one and decided cut it in half, because I'm a jerk. :)
> 
> I also don't trust my editing atm--certainly not enough to post it all right now. The rest should be up in a few days.
> 
> Kudos and comments fuel me.  
> Also coffee.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say a couple days?  
> Hm.  
> I meant today.

Clarke doesn’t mean to start pretending she’s sick, or injured for Bellamy’s attention, it just sort of happens—like most things do.

She’s not nearly as calculating as everyone thinks.

She just happens to notice the way Bellamy tends to over-react whenever she shows the slightest bit of discomfort—much to Roma’s annoyance, along with the rest of his fan club.

Clarke’s not going to deny that she gets some twisted pleasure out of watching Bellamy fuss over her scrapped knee—like it’s a matter of life and death—while Roma is left hanging in the background, hand still stuck in mid-air, where it had just been wrapped around Bellamy’s neck as he nuzzled her cheek.

That’s how it starts.

A scrapped knee—a headache—a slight limp in her walk.

All of which happened—none of which were a big fucking deal.

She may have embellished a little when she noticed how quickly Bellamy’s demeanor would change the minute he noticed something was off.

It’s the soft gaze that gets her—a touch to her face—a hand on her shoulder—a whisper of a question, asking if she’s okay, and then telling her she’s going to be fine with a small, relived smile, just for her. It reminds her of the first night he found her and dragged back to his bed—the only night she’s spent there since, although she definitely wasn’t the last to occupy his space.

Obviously, she didn’t have nearly much fun as the others who spent their time there—judging from the sounds that escape at night. The nights when Clarke has the most trouble falling asleep. Sometimes it’s the all too familiar feeling of jealousy that keeps her up, sometimes it’s her hand traveling down over the flesh of her breasts, then lower, teasing herself, until she comes undone, and lets her own moans drown out the rest.

“How’s that?” he asks, breaking her away from her daydreams—the soft, yet firm stroke of his thumbs massaging her neck. She slept on it wrong a few nights ago and although the pain is gone, Clarke’s not above using it to her advantage.

She’d like to think she was, but that’s not how it happens.

Maybe the others were right in calling her a princess—she certainly feels like spoiled brat right now.

They’re sitting by the by the fire—her on the ground, legs crossed, fingers clenched in the grass, with him behind her, propped up on a make-shift stool.

If looks could kill, Clarke would spontaneously combust into flames with the ones Roma’s sending her way, but luckily her skin is burning for an entirely different reason.

It’s in these moments; Clarke likes to pretend it means something more than it does.

She’s gotten so used to taking care of everyone, she nearly forgotten what it felt like to have someone care for her—even if it’s fleeting.

She tries to avoid entertaining the idea any of it is real, or means more than he lets on. She knows they’re not really friends—they’re co-leaders and he needs her, just as she needs him.

Needing him isn’t the problem; it’s _wanting_ him that’s a cold hard bitch.

“Better,” she breathes, biting back the moan creeping its way up her throat.

“You’re tense,” Bellamy notes, working his fingers to her shoulders. _No shit._ “You need to learn to relax.”

“Maybe you should teach me,” she says and immediately regrets it.

He halts his movements and the silence that follows has never been so loud in Clarke’s ears.

Is she breathing? She’s pretty sure she’s not breathing.

And then, “You offering something, Princess?”

His knees brush the outside of her arms as he holds her there and she jumps at the friction on her bare skin.

“Uh—I mean—huh?” She squeaks.

He laughs, his breath fanning over the back of her neck. “I’m only teasing, Clarke. Like I said, you need to relax.” His voice is low and dark, sending a shiver down her spine. He must notice, because he starts rubbing his palms down her arms as though to warm her, even though she’s definitely not cold.

“Right, yeah. I’m working on it.”

“I think I’m the one doing all the work.” 

“I can return the favor if you want,” she says, biting her tongue after, because she has no idea who the fuck is controlling it.

_Shut up, Clarke._

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment and she thinks she’s totally screwed—and not in the fun way.

But then, “I might take you up on that sometime,” he says, soft. One of his hands moves up to massage her scalp, curling his fingers through her hair, and seriously—it’s like he’s _trying_ to seduce her.

Wait, what if?

. . .

_Nah._

“So good," she says with a sigh, leaning into his touch. “Although I doubt you’ll need it.”

His fingers still, again

_Oh no._

“Meaning?”

“I just—I mean you—you have a lot of options. For relaxing, I mean—you know.”

She feels him shift behind her and totally fails to conceal her gasp when he slides down, pressing her back to his chest. “What are you talking about, Princess?” He whispers, brushing his lips against her hair, trapping her between his thighs.

“I don’t know. What are _you_ talking about _?_ ”

“Clarke—”

“I just meant it can’t be that hard to relax when--” She huffs. “ _You know_.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” He hums. “You should tell me—in detail,” he adds and she _just knows_ he’s smirking.

“ _Sex,_ _Bellamy_ ,” she mutters through her teeth, glancing around to assure herself no one heard her say it.

Roma is still sending her glares like clockwork, but she’s too far off to spy on their conversation. They’re getting a few curious stares from others, but she can’t imagine what they must look like to them. They’re basically cuddling by the fire and Clarke’s not even sure she’s really processing it.

The grin Octavia sends her way is far too feral for her liking.

Bellamy snorts, and tugs her hair a little tighter before he starts outright laughing.

She bristles. “Why the hell are you laughing? I didn’t tell you a joke,” she snaps.

“Sorry,” he sobers, pressing his cheek against her. She feels her heartbeat like a bomb, ticking in her chest, seconds away from an explosion. “You’re just—God, you’re like a blushing virgin.” He laughs again.

“I am not a—”

“I know, Clarke, but it doesn’t stop you from acting like one.”

She flushes all over. “I’m sorry, I’m not like—super cool about talking about fucking with you,” she says, petulant, scowling at the flames.

“I wasn’t aware you were talking about fucking me. Please, continue.”

She contemplates jumping into the fire.

“Shut up.”

“It’s okay, you know,” he goes on. “I think about fucking you, too.”

“What?”

Wait—seriously.

_What._

He lowers his hand to her hip, slipping his thumb under the hem of her shirt.  “Would you want to?”

“Um—”

“I’d make it _so good_ for you, Princess,” his voice is so low and hushed; she almost thinks she imagined it. She pinches her arm just to be sure and in the same moment he brushes a kiss to her neck. “Want to come find out how much?”

Clarke swallows hard, squeezing her eyes shut.

“I’m not going to be another one of your conquests, Bellamy.”

_Restraint, Clarke._

He grabs her chin, tilting it towards him. “Open your eyes, Princess.”

She listens.

“I know I'm an ass half the time and I can't promise that'll change. I can't say that I won’t find a way to fuck this up, because in all honestly, I probably will. I can't tell you I've been waiting for you, because we both know that's not true. But—if you want this . . ."

He pauses, pressing his lips to hers, soft and not long enough for her to respond. "If you want me," he says, letting the rest of his words fall to her mouth, so close she can taste them on her tongue. "I'm yours, okay? No one else. And if it ends, or if you just want a one-time thing, it'll be because you walked away—not because I changed my mind. I know what I want."

“Wow.”

He narrows his eyes, looking at her, warily. "That's all you have to say? That’s about as romantic as it—"

She kisses him and what comes after was totally worth the wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, let's be honest. I'll probably add a smutty finish to this at some point, but idk when it'll come to me.  
> I'm notoriously bad at multi-chapter fics.


End file.
